


Requiem to a Predicament

by AceQueenKing



Category: Valkyrie Profile Series
Genre: Ending A, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arngrim always admired strength, but he can't help but feel conflicted about admiring it in Lezard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem to a Predicament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Harken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Harken/gifts).



There is only one thing Arngrim  knows: strength.

Strength is the greatest of rewards. Better than money, better than women. A strong enemy gets his blood pumping faster than any promises from feeble kings.

Being quicker, stronger, better: these are the things he devotes his life to.

It is his strength that he depends on in battle.

Some depend on allies, on friends; Arngrim does not.

In the end, Arngrim thinks, all you can count on is the strength that lies in your own hands.

\- - - 

Arngrim has never met anyone like the Valkyrie.

He supposes that’s appropriate, given that she is a god. 

She is strong, there's no doubt in that. Every bit of her screams power, control, and Arngrim cannot help but desire to follow her. 

He's never been one to follow, but something about Lenneth has him curious enough to kneel – if only for a moment.

He does not question her offer, does not hesitate in taking his life.

When the deed is done, he falls, but feels little pain as the Valkyrie stands over him. She nods, turns, and his spirit follows.

“Why did you save me?” he asks as Artolia fades away. Only the blackness of death surrounds them.

“Consider it a gift,” she says. He does not understand, but her voice all but compels him to follow her. She's the opposite of little Jelanda's spineless little father-king. The Valkyrie is not iron or steel but something softer and far more deadly: lead. She is patient, fair, and pitiless, and he knows this by the clarion bell of the death goddess' voice.   This feels suspiciously like fate. 

“Looks like we'll be spending quite a bit of time together!” Jelanda says, exuberant grin lighting up her too-young face; he gives her a wan smile in return. Death is far too dark a place for so bright a child. 

“Come, my Einherjar.” The Valkyrie turns and Jelanda pulls him along. His senses tense as he prepares for battle, though he knows not what he will fight.

He isn't even sure why he's here. A gift, the death goddess said, but for what purpose – and for who?

 _I can show you the path,_  the Valkyrie whispers in his mind, and he's not sure if it's just his memories talking.

\- - - 

Being dead, Arngrim thinks, feels odd. 

He no longer needs to eat, nor sleep; Einherjar need rest but rarely dream.  Jelanda misses her dreams nearly as much as she misses her father— Arngrim does not.

Dreams, he thinks, are worthless distractions.

Instead, Arngrim spends his breaks thinking of the next battle, the next strike. The battles so far have been tedious, but the Valkyrie promises more. 

He will walk the Valkyrie's path upon the edge of his sword and he will follow the Valkyrie unto Ragnarok.

\- - -

Arngrim has a bad feeling about Lezard's tower.

“It's cold,” Jelanda says, shivering, and he nods in agreement.

The tower  _is_  cold. The coldness seems almost baked into the stone of the old building; its crumbling walls somehow feel  _profane_. There's something dark and evil in this place.   Arngrim knows is waiting for him.

 He can't shake the feeling of someone watching him as he climbs the tower.

“My stars,” their newest recruit says, huffing behind them. “How did the boy go so far wrong?”

“Your student had some interesting extracurricular studies,” he grumbles, ignoring wails from long-dead ghosts. He can feel the sheer power in this place in his bones and his heart trembles in anticipation.  

Their battle, he thinks, will be an awesome show of strength. 

\- - - 

Lezard is not what he expected. 

Lezard looks young, innocent even. He has a boyish face; small, delicate features that are dwarfed by his large glasses. His clothing is plain garb for a mage, nothing particularly out of place that his untrained eye can tell. 

But for all that he looks like a student, Lezard's lab is testament to his advanced studies. Arngrim can't help but respect his strength. 

 _Vainglorious_ , he thinks, might be a good word for Lezard. He's beautiful, for a man, with soft brown hair that flows just to the jaw. But Arngrim knows his beauty is a mere disguise, a way to make Lezard appear weaker than he is. There's power pulsing in his veins, power like Arngrim has never felt.

 Power that makes him quiver in a way he never has. 

“Arngrim, what are these?” Jelanda whispers, pointing an ethereal arm toward row after row of humanoid dolls. They stare ahead, blank and without life.

“Nothing,” he whispers. “Yet.”   Jelanda shifts toward him, seeking reassurance. He places a hand on her shoulder but does not speak. His attention remains on Lezard. 

“Arngrim—”

  “Enough.” He nudges her, pushing her away.  Arngrim pays just enough attention to Lezard's speech to catch his argument.

 _Gods are very much like dead souls_ , Lezard whispers, grinning slyly, and that theory scares him. There's something profoundly arrogant about thinking you can be on the level of the gods, he thinks; Lezard does not understand, and many people have paid the price for his beautiful folly.

 Lezard's lips curl wide as Angrim becomes aware that he's been staring at him.

“Perhaps you have competition, lady Valkyrie...” Lezard whispers, and Angrim feels his face flush as he turns away.

He turns away, tries to focus, but all he can hear is the pulsating echoes of Lezard's tower.

He manages to break Lezard's hold only by concentrating on the sound of the Valkyrie's sword being pulled from her scabbard.

“Humans who seek to cross beyond their designated boundaries invite more than death. You have invited  _total_  annihilation!”   He steels himself for battle, focusing the edge of his sword upon Lezard. He will only have one shot, perhaps two before Lezard's magic alter the fray. Lezard is far too powerful to allow him any sort of second chance.

There can be no mistakes. 

He makes none. His sword-strikes are neat, his strength unwavering, but  Lezard parries his sword neatly with magic.   Lezard is truly powerful, with a control that Angrim admires, even knowing it’s dangerous to do so. 

“I pray that we meet again,” Lezard sing-songs, just as he get close to striking a blow.

He doesn't say the thought is mutual, but he is well aware of the tingle of pleasure that runs through him. He has always enjoyed a battle against a worthy opponent.   But it feels wrong to admire one who could build this profane space. Lezard is so clearly without honor, so obviously corrupt. He can never abide it, but Lezard—

“He's running!” Jelanda cries; she starts to summon fire, but Angrim knows it will come into being too late.

“You really don't have any idea what you are, do you?” Lezard grins; his smirk triumphant as he vanishes. 

There's an ache in the tower, empty without it's master, an ache that he feels in his heart even if he does not understand why.   "Let's go," Valkyrie growls, and he follows, his thoughts still on Lezard.

\- - -

Einherjar do not often dream, but Angrim does.

He dreams of Lezard, of their battle; each hit perfectly parried. In his dreams, their battles are always a perfect contest of strength and will.

And he dreams of other things: confusing things; sweeter, more forbidden things. He dreams of his hands in Lezard's hair, Lezard's hands slick on his thighs.

 _Gods are much like the souls of men_ , Lezard whispers in his dreams, the cold rims of his glasses pressing against the slick sweat of Arngrim's neck. 

 _We are all Gods_ , Lezard chuckles, his dream-fingers curling around Arngrim and squeezing hard.  _We are all made of the same celestial dust._

 Lezard's grip does not weaken in his dreams as he whines, gives up control to the man who all too cleanly cuts through his defenses.

He wakes up from the dreams disturbed, always panting, short of breath. The Valkyrie's cool eyes follow him, and he looks away, in disgust.  “You are an Einherjar,” she says eventually, her voice cold in the darkness. “Remember your place.”

He shivers, but it has nothing to do with the temperature.   

\- - -

The Valkyrie changes.

Where once her step was cold, remorseless, she becomes sentimental, emotional. It is a slow change, gradual, but one that becomes clear in her dealings with Lucian. 

Arngrim tries not to be bitter, but it's hard not to, when Valkyrie wears his favor, when Valkyrie so-clearly does not remember her place.

Eventually, the Gods notice.

And she is punished.

He watches in horror as her face changes to another. She calls for help, but he does not answer, too transfixed to force his legs to run.

Bravery has its limits. His strength fails him, his body so much less focused than his mind.

When she turns toward them, a different woman's face appears. 

“I am the Valkyrie,” she says, and in those four words, he knows that she is not.

He doesn't expect anyone to come to their aid, but Lezard does, strolling into valley as if on cue.

He can't help but wonder if Lezard saw this coming, anticipated it somehow. Lezard has everything they need to save Valkyrie—right now to the homunculus.  

Arngrim is, in truth, only half-relieved by Lezard's preparedness. 

The sorcerer flashes him a dazzling smile.

"We don't have a lot of time," Lezard says. Arngrim knows he isn't just referring to Valkyrie.

This, he thinks, is the beginning of the end.

\- - -

Arngrim feels the odd man out in Mystina's laboratory. The mages speak in an incomprehensible code, all incantations and prayers.   He doesn't understand it. Instead, he stands guard over the homunculus, hoping that it might make up for his failure to act earlier.

He tries not to dwell on it, to not think of the strength he lacked in the moment he needed it most. He wonders if Lezard would hesitate if he were put in the same situation.

He feels powerless. Nothing he can do but watch.

He keeps a careful eye on Mystina and Lezard, their body language making their feelings toward one another plain. Neither likes the other. The fragility of their alliance is hammered home in Mystina's ram-rod straight posture, in Lezard's too-practiced-to-be-casual shrug. 

It's Lezard he finds himself watching more, unable to trust the man yet unable to keep his eyes off of him and hating himself for it. 

He does not trust Lezard, knows the evil that lies in his soul. He has seen Lezard's victims, can still hear them in his memories. And yet, for all that – for all the evil, the lies, the destruction, the madness – he can still feel a deep attraction to the man. 

There's a seductiveness to him.

And Lezard, he thinks, is all the more dangerous because of it. He isn't sure how even the Lady Valkyrie resists him so easily – but Gods, perhaps, are not so akin to dead souls as Lezard wishes.

Perhaps they will never get a chance to find out.

Arngrim stares down at the homunculus, breathing deep. It seems hard to believe that the great Valkyrie inhabits this shell; it seems as blank as all the others that once graced Lezard's laboratory.

It's quiet now; he's the only one still conscious. The dead do not require sleep, but magic requires rest.

Especially, he thinks, magic as powerful as defying the Gods himself.

He catches a motion out of the corner of his eye. He watches, transfixed, Lezard's black-silk robes swishing as he walks over to him. Lezard stretches, yawning, and Arngrim can't help but memorize every bend in the young wizard’s body.

“Ah,” Lezard says, quietly. “I see our goddess is breathing well."  

He says nothing.

They sit in agreeable silence for a moment. Lezard runs a hand down the homunculus' arm with such attention and care that Arngrim feels jealous.

“Regular heartbeat. Good breathing. She's stable. For now.” Lezard grins at him, a wild grin that he detests yet, somehow, he cannot stop himself from being drawn into it.

“You don't trust me.” Lezard says, still grinning his cat-like grin, even as he reaches up to adjust glasses Arngrim isn't even sure he needs. “That's interesting.”

  “You haven't given us much reason for trust,” he grunts.

It's too dangerous a temptation to trust Lezard. He closes his eyes, reminds himself of Lezard's victims, of all the reasons to let some of those daydreams become precious reality. 

“My my, and after I helped Mysty rescue your beloved Valkyrie, too,” Lezard snorts.   
  
  "It was hardly a selfless rescue."

Lezard simply smiles in response and strokes the homunculus’ long, silver hair.

“We'll have to head for Brahm's castle as soon as Mysty awakens. She's might be stable, but there's no telling how long.”  

 “Hmm.” That name – Brahms – induces another feeling he's not comfortable with. He remembers Hrist's face, her confusion –  _Don't you remember our battles against Brahms? –_ and dislikes the idea of battles so great that he cannot even remember them.

 “Not much for the talking, are you?” Lezard says. His eyes sparkle with amusement at his joke for a few seconds before his attention is diverted to his lady love.

He watches with an odd sense of jealousy as Lezard glides one gloved finger down the Valkyrie's skin. It makes him feel queasy, for all the wrong reasons.

“I always preferred men of action, anyway.” Lezard pulls a bit of the homoculus' hair away from her face. “Easier to tell where they stand.”  

“And where do I stand?” Arngrim crosses his arms; glances to see if there's any hint that Mystina will awaken soon. He doesn't like being left alone – not with Lezard.

“With the Valkyrie, of course.” Lezard returns his attention to him. “You're a bit boring in truth, Arngrim. You're not all that fond of me but, ah,” Lezard chuckles and snaps his fingers. “You like my ah, how to say, talents?”

   “Hmph.” He doesn't tell Lezard how wrong he is. He doesn't trust Lezard, but he does admire his strength and... other attributes. “And just how did you come to have these... talents?”

   “Well, I can't tell you  _all_  my secrets.” Lezard fiddles through his pockets for a moment before pulling out a bright stone. “But I can tell you this: the origin of my philosophy lies within the Philosopher’s Stone.”  

 “The what?”

   “Here,” Lezard smirks, holding out his hand. In the center of his out-stretched palm is a small stone, a faint tiger's eye pattern inherent in the glassy surface, but otherwise unremarkable. “Touch it.”

   “No.” Arngrim stares down at the pebble, suddenly afraid. If the stone made Lezard powerful at the cost of his honor, he does  _not_  wish to experience it.

 “What do you have to lose?”

“With you? Anything.” He snorts. “How do I know it won't...turn me into a monster or something?”

  “It won't. No ghoul powder involved.” Lezard pulls off one of his gloves and gently thumbs the stone; it lights up a bit, a spark of light that's echoed in Lezard's glasses. “See? Just a stone. A very special stone. It showed me my way... Perhaps it will show you yours?"

Arngrim pulls off his glove and Lezard grins in victory.

He lets his larger fingers cover Lezard's palm, lets his thumb just slightly glide on to the stone. It feels warm in his large fingers, and he can feel Lezard's heartbeat thrumming. 

"Close your eyes," Lezard sing-songs.

"No."

  "You won't get a surprise if you don't." Lezard puts his hands on his hips, looking oddly petulant. "This stone is precious to me, I would not risk it to harm an ally. Especially one as strong as you."  

Arngrim closes his eyes.   The stone hums an unworldly noise, and then there is a flash of a memory he has never experienced.

_  
He's falling down upon a stone bed, a slim man on top of him. Lezard growls as Arngrim winds his hands up a slim back, his fingers eventually fiddling wit  a slim locket on Lezard's neck. His fingers wind around the stone; he can feel it pulsing softly._

 “ _You admitted defeat this time. I'm surprised,” his doppelganger says, lips curling into a smile._

_"You should not have interfered!"_

_"You cannot own her soul," he hears himself saying as he cups a small chin. "No one can."_

  _"We shall see," Lezard fumes as he leans over him. "But for now, I shall own you."_

  _Yes," Arngrim says, sealing the words with a kiss._

 

Arngrim wrenches his hand backwards, hand nearly burned. 

This is a _dangerous_ stone. 

“What...was that?”  

“The past, sometimes. The future, others. What could be, at least,” Lezard says, smirking as he recollects his precious stone. Arngrim wishes he was fast enough to keep it. “You can see why I wanted to keep a hold on it.”

  He says nothing, mind still focused on the vision. It had felt so real—Lezard's hands on his thighs, his delicate mouth covering Arngrim's own.

“What did it show you?” Lezard touches his arm, and he shudders, both from want and apprehension.

“Bits and pieces. Hard to take in.” He shrugs.

“Ah, mine as well. At least at first.” Lezard smiles, self-satisfied and dangerously smug. "It was in this way I first saw you, you know. And the Lady Valkyrie."

"You saw us?"

 Lezard ignores him, leaning over the homoculus' small form.

“She is beautiful, isn't she?” There's awe in his speech, but Arngrim isn't sure if it's for the Lady Valkyrie or his own horrible creation. "I have always known that my divine creation was for this very purpose. You will see, Arngrim—my research will have been worth it. There's something... satisfying, isn't it? About bringing one of the gods to our level."

Arngrim closes his still-burning hand into a tight fist.

He can _never_ let that vision come to pass.

“I'm going to rest,” he says, glancing toward Mystina, toward safety.

“You say that, but you will chose my path, in the end.” Lezard smiles. “You always do. Ever since Eyfura, you have been always chosen my side. Even with Alicia, you chose me.”

He ignores Lezard, not willing to accept his lies. And surely they are lies, for he cannot ever imagine his fingers curling against such a honorless dog.

 He curls up next to Mystina on the too-cold floor. He hopes he does not dream, but he does, a dream of fiery heat and Lezard's cool fingers curled against his back. 

\- - -

He cannot help but be fascinated by Lezard's spell-weaving as he reunites the pieces of Valkyrie's soul. 

Lezard is, as always, intense, his magics firm and his incantations true. It feels wrong to call such a profane ritual beautiful, but Lezard manages to find a way to make it exactly that. 

Lezard's magic never wavers; the blood strong, the will undefeatable. 

Arngrim isn't surprised when he takes the Valkyrie and breathes life into her. 

Lezard, he thinks, is capable of many impossible things. 

Those cruel pink lips smirk in self-congratulation as the Valkyrie rises, and Arngrim cannot help but feel sick to his stomach.

\- - -

At the end, Arngrim is not alone.

When he walks into the Aesir's land – and surely this _is_ Valhalla, he can imagine no other place so finely green, no land bearing such formidable soldiers, all of whom feel more like long-lost brothers than colleagues. It feels like home, like heaven, familiar even if he has been long gone. He sees Jelanda battling an ice giant what must me miles away on top of a hill, and, for all the distance, doesn't miss the way she smiles at him.

 _Arngrim,_ he hears, though her voice cannot possibly carry over the hills, _you came. I knew you would._

 _So we have reached Ragnarok_ , he hears Lezard whisper in his mind, and his gut turns. Lezard's voice has none of the innocence or peacefulness of the princess; it is hungry, obsessive. _Finally_.

He doesn't like the sound of that, but the smile on Lezard's face when he dares to glance back is as sweet as it is bitter.

He fights as hard as he can, never leaving Valkyrie's side; Lezard fights bravely, too. His spells do not waiver, his concentration does not break, and Arngrim wants nothing more than to smash his face in for being so good at battle yet so evil at heart.

He tries to keep an eye on Lezard, his vision never wavering until Loki pulls his final trick. For all his strength, he's powerless to stop Loki, frozen by the strangely familiar orb in Loki's fingers pulsing.

The orb is fascinating – _Dragon Orb_ – Valkyrie supplies, not a word he's heard, but one that seems like he should have.

For the briefest of moments he regrets not taking Brahms offer to tell him about a life Arngrim has not lived.

“We can't allow him to use it,” Mystina barks, her scepter shining, and he grabs his sword. He'll take Loki, if he can time it with Mystina's attack, then Loki will have to take at least one hit, he won't able to avoid them both—

The orb pulses at the same time something pushes him from behind, and the world moves in slow motion.

He glances back for a moment; the Valkyrie's face burns in hot indignation, Mystina's face more fearful, but Lezard, as usual, looks unbothered.

“Lezard, how could you!” Mystina's fingers shake, she readies her scepter for an attack that will not come in time.

There is a wave of light, and then there is nothing, the world crumbling away beneath their feet—and the Einherjar with it. 

In his last acts, he turns toward Lezard; he's not sure why, at the end, he feels compelled toward him, but he obeys the urge, unable to resist seeing both the man who saved the Valkyrie and the man who doomed him.

The last thing Arngrim sees is Lezard reaching into his pocket. He attempts to mouth _no,_ to warn Valkyrie and Mystina even if he can't see them, but he can't. He feels his body dissipating, knows he has served his purpose as Lezard's shield when Lezard smashes the Philosopher’s Stone.

And then he topples over the great divide and there is nothing, his last sight Lezard's cat-like smile as the glass breaks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, Arngrim will become very familiar with that Dragon Orb in his next life. 
> 
> Thanks to Buhnebeest for the beta work!
> 
> Happy holidays to Lady Harken. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
